Nobody knew whose idea the “European Riviera aesthetic” had been.
Probably Luke’s.
He’d shown up to the beach house with vintage sunglasses, linen shirts, a playlist full of French disco, and — most alarmingly — a bright red Speedo folded neatly on top of his suitcase like it deserved respect.
“Mate,” Connor had said, staring at it. “That thing pays taxes in Italy.”
Luke ignored him.
The next afternoon, while everyone else hid inside oversized board shorts and baseball caps, Luke emerged from the cabin looking like he’d accidentally wandered out of a 1978 perfume advertisement.
The beach went strangely quiet.
An elderly woman lowered her paperback.
Two volleyball players missed the ball entirely.
Somewhere in the distance, a seagull screamed.
Connor threw an arm around him and sighed. “I can’t believe you’re making this work.”
Luke took a sip from the little red cup he’d been carrying around all day and stared heroically toward the horizon.
“It’s not about confidence,” he said.
“It’s about commitment.”
By sunset, three more guys in their group were online searching for red Speedos.
The revolution had begun.